


you play with my feelings (right from the start)

by PenroseSun



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Footnotes, Love Confessions, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 15:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenroseSun/pseuds/PenroseSun
Summary: There were three things of which Crowley was absolutely certain:1. Aziraphale, being an angel, was required to be kind and loving towards all things, even when those things were flawed or sinful or fallen.2. Notwithstanding that obligatory kindness, Aziraphale would never, and could never truly love a demon, in any meaningful sense.3. Despite this, Crowley was desperately, hopelessly, in love with him.





	you play with my feelings (right from the start)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brinnanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/gifts).
  * Inspired by [get religion quick (cause you're looking divine)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091460) by [brinnanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza). 



> Title is from Stealin’ by Queen (the B-side from the Breakthru single that the original fic took its name from)

There were three things of which Crowley was absolutely certain:

  1. Aziraphale, being an angel, was required to be kind and loving towards all things, even when those things were flawed or sinful or fallen.
  2. Notwithstanding that obligatory kindness, Aziraphale would never, and could never truly love a demon, in any meaningful sense.
  3. Despite this, Crowley was desperately, hopelessly, in love with him.



And that was shit, but Crowley had long since made peace with it. Or, well… ‘peace’ was a rather generous term for what he’d made over the centuries – it had demilitarized zones and armed mine-fields, and every so often one of the sides made noises towards developing a nuclear program. But it could certainly be _worse_ , and so Crowley wasn’t complaining.

Aziraphale was his friend. Aziraphale was his close friend, possibly even his _best_ friend. That alone was worth something – was worth quite a lot, actually, and he’d do just about anything to keep it.[1] And if sometimes, when they went out to dinner together, or walked in the park together, or got drunk and spent the night together, Crowley imagined to himself that they actually _were_ together, well… no one needed to know that but him.

Anyway, the whole ‘coveting’ thing jived pretty nicely with the entire demonic aesthetic. He was _supposed_ to be a tortured soul, he was _supposed_ to want things he couldn’t have. And while love was not, even generously speaking, the sort of thing that demons were supposed to covet, Aziraphale himself was the textbook definition of unobtainable. So, in a way, you could almost argue that he was just doing his job.

Since Crowley had been doing these sort of mental gymnastics for a good few millennia now, he was fairly good at them. And as a result, the weird state of limbo[2] that they’d carved out for themselves would have no doubt been how things stayed, indefinitely, forever. Would have, that was, if it wasn’t for the fact that, almost immediately after having several near-death experiences in a row, the two of them had made the delightful discovery that Aziraphale’s newly restored bookshop now apparently had an _entire wine cellar_.

It wasn’t great wine. It wasn’t even good wine – If Crowley was being honest, it was actually rather appallingly bad wine, even if some of the wine bottles purported to be from perfectly reputable terroirs. But then, in all fairness, the Antichrist was only eleven, so you couldn’t exactly fault him for lacking a sophisticated palate.[3]

In any case, both he and Aziraphale were perfectly capable of improving basically any alcohol they set their minds to improving, and so after Crowley had taken the first swig and immediately regretted it, all of the wine in Aziraphale’s possession suddenly found itself a good deal more palatable. They’d found, and drunk, a bottle of Champagne in celebration, and then an Eiswein to go with some biscuits, and then several bottles of Riesling basically just because they were there. At this point, it was somewhat unclear whether the wine was steadily improving because they were wishing it better, or simply because they’d already drunk a lot of it, and as Crowley struggled to to pry another bottle open, he found he didn’t much care.

“You could always just miracle it open, you know,” Aziraphale drawled.

“Where’s the fun in that?” said Crowley, yanking somewhat more forcefully at the cork. “Humans have been drinking wine without miracling it open for centuries, it’s part of the– hhhrgh– _experience_.” The cork stayed stubbornly put.

“Well, in that case you ought to jiggle the corkscrew a bit,” said Aziraphale. “Anyways, what was I saying?” There was a lovely sort of primness to his voice, even now when they were both thoroughly sloshed, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the sound.

“Film music,” he supplied.

“Film music!” said Aziraphale, throwing up his hands dramatically. “And I have nothing against film music, mind– some of it’s quite good. I’ll happily attend any _Copland_ concert. But these days… Just last week, do you what they played? _Star Wars._ At the Albert Hall!”

Crowley had always loved Aziraphale’s voice – all the more so when he was on some subject he was passionate about. There was something in the timbre of it, like it was a sparkle of light, transmuted into sound. Not _angelic_ , exactly, though. No, angels were usually so severe – cold, even. And Aziraphale’s voice was nothing like that at all. Sometimes Crowley wondered what Aziraphale’s voice would be like in other contexts – if that warm sparkle of light extended into sounds that weren’t necessarily words, and if Crowley could, perhaps, coax it out of him…

He firmly and abruptly set that train of thought aside, and channeled the frustration into one last productive yank on the wine cork, which sprang free with a _pop_.

“Ha– got it! Here you go–” Crowley looked up triumphantly, only to meet Aziraphale’s dazzlingly fond smile, and immediately go weak. “…angel.”

Aziraphale took the bottle, and Crowley thrilled as their hands briefly touched.

“Why, thank you.” He poured himself a glass, then passed it back… and then pulled a face when Crowley took a swig from the bottle directly. “Really, dear?”

“Worried about catching my cooties?” Crowley said, and Aziraphale scoffed.

“The _experience_ , Crowley. Why go through all the trouble to uncork it the right way, when you’re just going to drink it straight from the bottle like that?”

Crowley’s wineglass was gone, or at least, it wasn’t immediately in arms reach, which this many bottles into the night amounted to basically the same thing. He grabbed one of Aziraphale’s coffee mugs off a nearby table instead, willed it clean, and poured himself a glass.

“You’re an absolute heathen,” Aziraphale said, and then immediately launched back into his explanation of what he thought of John Williams and why.[4]

They’d settled into a sort of comfortable mess on Aziraphale couch – not cuddling, by any means, but close enough to each other that it was _almost_ like cuddling. Crowley couldn’t feel the rumble of Aziraphale’s chest as he spoke, but he could see it. He didn’t reach out to touch Aziraphale, but he could readily imagine himself curled up against the angel’s warmth.

It was so easy, sitting like this, to simply bask in Aziraphale’s presence, and let the conversation roll over him like a wave. They could just sit here, curled up on the sofa, half a foot apart, and Aziraphale could rant about ‘real composers’ and ‘back when oratorio was the big thing,’ and Crowley could pretend that this was enough for him. And it _was_ – he was sure it was. He’d been swallowing his feelings for thousands of years, after all, and this was _nice_. This was _simple_. It cost him nothing at all to keep those few words bottled up forever. It was as easy as breathing.

And then, very suddenly, it wasn’t.

Because suddenly Crowley realized, with the weight of a great realization matched only by the quantity of alcohol that it took to produce it, that _Aziraphale had nearly died._ And, sure, they _could_ go on after the End of the World like this, blathering on and pretending that it never happened. But what was the point?

Crowley had never really appreciated the human motto of ‘life is short’, since for him, it was anything but.[5] Except, now that they’d almost lost everything, now that they’d broken free from Heaven and Hell completely… well, _anything_ could happen, couldn’t it? He could die. Aziraphale could die. The world could change its mind and end anyways. Their respective bosses could notice their deception and be back on their doorstep tomorrow, and what would he have done in the meantime?

 _Nothing._ He’d have just sat here and pretended that everything was normal, _willed_ things back to the status quo, and never said a god-blessed thing until it was too late to say anything at all.

And that was what did it, really – that train of thought was the straw that broke the camel’s back, the red balloon that ended his precarious ceasefire. Because if any moment really could be the end, then it didn’t matter that Aziraphale would never return his feelings. It didn’t even matter that he’d be risking their friendship to tell him. Crowley loved Aziraphale, and didn’t care how one-sided it was, and he _needed Aziraphale to know_.

“Oi, angel,” he said, rather rudely interrupting something about Hans Zimmerman and single blaring cello notes. “I love you.”

“– _which_ as far as leitmotifs go–” Aziraphale stopped short as Crowley’s words seemed to catch up to him. “…I’m sorry, what?”

Crowley swallowed. “I’m in love with you, angel.”

And there – he’d said it. Six thousand years, and it was finally out in the open.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and then Aziraphale looked away from him. Crowley wasn’t even slightly surprised.

“That’s quite cruel,” said Aziraphale, finally, in a way which was clearly meant to be curt, but in fact was soft as anything. “Even for you, Crowley.”

Crowley shrugged. It was, he knew it was. It was selfish and hurtful and stupid, foisting his feelings onto Aziraphale like this, instead of letting him feign ignorance. But at the moment, he found he didn’t much care.

“Well, it’s the truth,” he said, and maybe some of the pain he felt crept into his voice, maybe Aziraphale could hear some of the longing he’d kept hidden for six millennia. Crowley found he didn’t much care about that either. “I love you. I have for centuries. And it doesn’t even matter that you don’t love me back – I’m never going to stop.”

He took another swig of wine, as much to avoid looking at Aziraphale as anything. It didn’t feel like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t feel better for having gotten the confession off his chest. No, all he felt was drunk, and in love, and full of a vague sense of self-loathing. But at least he’d _said something_ now.

There was a shattering sound. Crowley glanced up with a start, and realized that Aziraphale, who was staring at him with a wide-eyed, stricken expression, had accidentally crushed his wineglass in hand. Crowley quickly miracled away the resultant stain and glass shards, but Aziraphale didn’t even seem to notice.

“Aziraphale…?” Crowley asked. “Aziraphale, are you ok?”

“What–” Aziraphale started. “ _Why–_ ”

“I just wanted you to know,” said Crowley quickly, and maybe this had been a horrible mistake after all. “Look, anything could happen, right, and if things go bad again I don’t–” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. “It’s not like I’m expecting anything, ok? It’s fine that you don’t love me.”

Clearly that had been the wrong thing to say, because if anything, Aziraphale looked even paler now.

“Angel…”

“How,” Aziraphale ground out, finally, like the words themselves were fighting him, “ _How_ can you say that, Crowley?”

And ok, that hurt. Sure, he always knew his feelings were unrequited, and he had enough of his wits about him to recognize that they were probably unwanted as well, but he never thought that they’d be met with actual _revulsion_.

“Aziraphale–” Crowley reached out, and Aziraphale jerked his hands away like he’d been burned.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, but you don’t get to just– just _pretend_ –” Aziraphale stopped, and took a breath that was probably meant to be calming. “…Crowley, of _course_ I love you. You know I do.”

For a moment, Crowley was so taken off-guard that he let something warm and rather like hope start to bloom in his chest. But after a split-second of floundering, he realized what Aziraphale must have meant, and it popped like a soap bubble.

“Sorry, angel – bad choice of words,” said Crowley, and he tried desperately to keep the disappointment out of his voice as he moved the conversation back to firmer ground. “You’re right – You love everything; it’s your job. And I wasn’t trying to imply you were bad at it. I just– Well, I meant love, like _in love with_. You know?”

Aziraphale nodded, sharply. “Yes, I do know what love means, Crowley.” There was a strange sort of hardness in his voice, and Crowley sighed.

“Aziraphale, you’re loving _towards_ things. But… I’m in love with you, in a romantic sense. You don’t love me like that. You can’t. And– and that’s fine. It really is. I get it.”

“…You get it.” Aziraphale said the words slowly, like he was tasting them for the first time, and not particularly enjoying it.

Crowley nodded, even though he wasn’t entirely sure it was a question. “Yeah. Absolutely. No hard feelings at all.”[6]

“And… _what_ exactly is ‘it’? In this circumstance. What is the thing that you ‘get.’”

Christ, he was really going to make him spell it out, the bastard. The wine in Crowley’s coffee mug rapidly become something much stronger, and Crowley drained it. “What I get, angel… is that you’re an _angel_.”

The look that Aziraphale was giving him was impossible to read. “…Yes, Crowley, I am.”

“And I’m a demon.”

“I’m very aware.”

“And… Well, that means that you… I mean, you’d never…” The words stuck in Crowley’s throat, piling up like so much bile. “…Oh, come on, don’t make me say it again.”

Aziraphale sat silent, starring at him with a sort of horrified fascination, and the seconds seemed to tick by like hours. Then, finally, he shifted forwards, and took Crowley’s hands in his own. Crowley let him, and hated how utterly grateful he was for the contact.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale said, very slowly. “Do you… do you _actually_ think I don’t love you?”

And then suddenly he released Crowley’s hands and stumbled up from the couch.

“Aziraphale…”

“No, hang on– give me a moment.” Aziraphale’s hands were at his temples, and he winced, and then turned back to Crowley, a good deal steadier. “Right. You too, Crowley. Sober up.”

“I don’t want to,” said Crowley, sullenly. Aziraphale made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat, and then Crowley found himself a good deal more sober than he wanted to be. “…No fair.”

“Alright,” said Aziraphale, as much to himself as to Crowley. “Let’s try this again. Why do you think I don’t love you?”

Crowley sighed. “Because, as we’ve already established, I’m a–"

“No, not that,” said Aziraphale, cutting him off with a wave. “We’ll address whatever _that_ is later. I don’t mean ‘why don’t I’ – I mean, why do you _think_ I don’t?”

For the life of him, Crowley had _no_ idea how to follow this conversation anymore. “Why… would I think otherwise?”

“ _Crowley–_ ” Aziraphale sputtered, “You can literally _sense_ people’s desires!”

The warm hope-like feeling was clawing its way back into his chest. Crowley plucked it out and ground it underfoot before it could get any ideas. “Well, it’s not a passive perception thing,” he said, as easily as he could muster. “I’d have to look.”

“…Haven’t you?”

“At… you? No, of course not.”

“ _Never?_ ”

Aziraphale had a wide-eyed, incredulous look to him, and Crowley cast his mind back, trying desperately to remember when or why he might have, and to figure out why on earth it should matter this much.

It wasn’t like he just randomly poked around in people’s heads. People’s desires could be fascinating and lurid and exploitable, certainly, but they could also be incredible obnoxious, and at times downright boring. Crowley generally didn’t bother checking unless his instincts told him that something might come of it. And besides, that was all for _humans_. The whole point of sensing desires was so that he could tempt people to them, and even back when they were adversaries, Aziraphale had been a rival, not a target.

He shrugged. “Er… no, sorry angel. Can’t say I have.”

“But– all those times, in the past!” Aziraphale said. He was pacing, now – wringing his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them. “There were all those times when I’d pull away from you, and I was scared and lying to myself, and _you’d_ say– You’d _know_ , you’d always know what I really wanted– what I was running from…” He turned back at Crowley, and there was such _pleading_ in his gaze. Crowley’s stomach did an ill-advised flip.

“…Angel, I didn’t know _shit_ about how you really felt. I was just being an asshole.”

Aziraphale shook his head like he didn’t believe what he was hearing – opened his mouth to speak – closed it. Opened it again. Crowley reached for the wine while he was distracted, only for the bottle vanish from out of his hand.

“Could you just…” Aziraphale said finally. “Could you just _look?_ Right now?”

It couldn’t be true. There was no way – Crowley was sure of it. Whatever Aziraphale thought he felt, it couldn’t possibly be that. Not really. There were certain unchangeable things about the nature of angels and demons, and that was just how things were… and that stupid _hope_ feeling that stubbornly refused to die was apparently back again, _bless it_.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, and it was the ragged edge to his voice that did it. “Crowley, _please?_ ”

“Oh, what the hell, _fine_ ,” said Crowley, and he closed his eyes, and concentrated.

A flutter of desire danced before him, sensations radiating off of the angel like dazzling rays of light. Aziraphale wanted…

_Aziraphale wanted books and—cocoa and—gravlax on rye bread and—Crowley’s smile and—that first edition Canterbury Tales that got away at auction and—a cottage in South Downs, where maybe they could live together, and—crêpes suzette and—taking Crowley out for crêpes suzette and—reading inside in the rain and—listening to Crowley laugh, and—shelves, and the smell of old parchment, and—holding Crowley’s hand and—holding Crowley at all and—Crowley’s voice, and Crowley’s eyes, and Crowley after the world nearly ended, and the two of them, together and happy and alive and–_

And–

Oh. _Oh._

“…You want me,” he said, with a sort of terrified wonder. “You want _me_. Why–”

“Because ‘wanting,’” said Aziraphale, with a primness had gone well beyond passive aggressive, “is a normal thing to feel towards someone who you _love_.”

“…Oh,” said Crowley, stupidly.

Aziraphale sat down besides him again, and reached out, brushing his thumb against Crowley’s cheek. “You really thought…?”

“Well, I mean…” Crowley was desperately fighting a blush and losing very badly. “You never– you never _said_ anything, angel.”

“Well, neither did you!” said Aziraphale. His tone was annoyed, but his expression was fond, so fond, and… and _loving_. It was plain as day – radiant as everything else about Aziraphale, and Crowley didn’t know how he could have missed something so _obvious_ for so, so long. “I’ve spent _centuries_ second-guessing, you know. And if anything was ever going to happen, I figured when I stayed the night at your place after the world almost ended would have been the time, but you didn’t even…!”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. “Is there any chance that you’d want to… I mean, can I…?”

And before he even finished asking, Aziraphale was kissing him.

* * *

[1]He meant this a tad more literally than most humans did. To date, ‘just about anything’ had included running into a burning building, destroying his favorite car, stopping time itself, facing down his boss from work with a tire iron, and voluntarily letting himself be kidnapped. And that was just this past week.

[2]The term ‘limbo’ being figurative, of course. Actual limbo was rather like Earth, except that it was almost entirely full of infants and ancient Greek philosophers, for reasons that not even Hell could fully explain.

[3]Adam had only ever actually tasted wine once before, at the bar-mitzvah of one of his classmates – and as a result, his concept of wine was essentially limited to different flavors of Manischewitz.

[4]Given that Aziraphale hadn’t actually set foot in a cinema since 1952, he had rather a lot of opinions on the subject.

[5]He’d especially never appreciated it in the context of romantic fiction, because, as he perhaps too loudly protested, he definitely never read those sorts of books.

[6]This was technically a lie. Crowley had a good deal of hard feelings on the subject, but he was quite skilled at directing them towards other, more productive targets, such as God, and his plants, and the general concept of ‘ineffability.’


End file.
